The Drake Exposition
by BEJR
Summary: 'And apparently one of his weaknesses was that lovely annual gem known as the Science Fair.' Scientific method. Alfred being awesome. Blackmail material collected. No slash.


**Title**: The Drake Exposition

(it's a combination of a science showcase - such as the Stark Expo in Iron Man - and the exposition or background of a character) Look at me, being all fancy :)

**Summary**: 'And apparently one of his weaknesses was that lovely annual gem known as the Science Fair.' Scientific method. Alfred being awesome. No slash.

**Characters**: Tim, Bruce Alfred, mentions of Dick Grayson as Nightwing

**Warnings**: language and mentions of drug use and addiction

**A/N**: I recently watched "Batman Begins" for the millionth time, so expect references! Thanks to everyone who reads and/or reviews my stories - you make my day!

**A/N**: I took liberties when describing the geography of Gotham. Most sources consider it "New York City at night" so I went with that.

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><p>Tim Drake glared at his computer screen.<p>

Sometimes, in his Robin world, it was easy to forget the trivialities of his Tim world. When he's suited up and trying to talk down a nervous gunman holding an entire bowling alley hostage on league night, it's really simple to forget he needs to bring in a sleeve of plastic cups for his American history class's Constitution Day party.

Part of the separation was from necessity. Batman believed in learning through experience (Tim had the scars to prove it) and you figured out pretty quickly that mulling over Lewis acids and buffer solutions right before an infiltration of the Penguin's office only lead to a splinted ankle, cracked eye socket, or some other injury that only served to get Alfred worried, the Bat angry, and you benched and pushing paper for a week.

He and Bruce'd had a conversation or two about Tim dropping school altogether (usually conducted when Tim had frozen peas on his knuckles and a calculus test fifth period the next day), but Tim never seriously considered the idea (he liked Alfred and Bruce well enough, but one word: girls) and Bruce didn't want him to miss out on the experiences of high school (gee, thanks).

Tim genuinely liked school. Yes, there were still the typical teenage trials (acne, algebra, and assemblies) but compared to nights spent speculating about the motives and psychoses of one more wrongdoer, one more villain, it was a relief. A relief to know that (typical cliché) good still existed in the world: in the teacher who couldn't help caring about each and every one of their students, in the college counselor who worked long hours with universities to make sure all students could afford to better themselves with a higher education, and in the school service group that raised over one thousand dollars for Gotham General's children's unit.

Some days, however, it grated.

He never regretted and would never regret all the good that came out of his school, but sometimes the absolute normality of it crashed with his grittier world view and didn't tell him to put on his seat belt.

It galled him.

How could his classmates casually flaunt a pair of designer boots when every night there were homeless crowded under the bridges to the Narrows, tatters around their feet or barefoot? How could they joke about smoking, drinking, and getting high when Tim had seen first hand what happened to a person when addictions sank in their teeth and _ripped_, shredding their life until it was just a frayed string of one hit to the next?

In the beginning, it was pretty much what would happen if the "Eat your food because there are children starving in Africa" saying bitch-slapped you in the face with a two-by-four. Tim was already going through the Bat equivalent of Hell Week on top of learning far more than he wanted about the seamy underbelly of Gotham, and if he had to suffer through one more offhand comment from a letterman-wearing upperclassman about how much life _sucked_ because their _cell phone_ was broken, he was going to punch them in the face, burst into tears, or throw up. Possibly all of the above. In that order.

Not the smoothest of transitions, admittedly. He envied those heroes in movies who had greatness thrust upon them and yet still thrived.

However, after a few cups of tea and a game of chess with Alfred (bless that man and his wisdom), Tim had more or less made his peace with the world. He knew that, generally, they were acting out of ignorance rather than true malice, and he accepted that it wasn't likely to change. However, it did make him respect those who tried to make a difference, the Jim Gordon's and Leslie Thompkins's of the world, all the more. An insistence on a frugal lifestyle and Wayne Enterprises donating a large sum to the Police Officers' Widow and Orphan fund each Christmas, and Tim was mostly safe from demonstrating to no-neck jocks exactly how proficient he was when it came to aikido.

Tim didn't pretend he was as calm and balanced as a Buddhist monk (or an English butler), but he developed enough of a center to make it through the worst of days, hours, minutes, or seconds (like that heart-stopping one when he was _positive _the bullet slammed into Gordon, center mass). Even the Bat had his bad days, especially when a case involved a young boy or Bruce Wayne entertained a particularly vapid blonde, and Tim knew he had five times as many potential chinks in his mental armor due to less experience.

And apparently one of his weaknesses was that lovely annual gem known as the Science Fair.

Science fair: the bane of every high schooler's existence, and the source that currently had him glowering at the computer like it had served him cold coffee and spit in it too.

Tim was no stranger to the good 'ol scientific method – Batman emphasized logic and reason in all deductions, and Tim was learned in the art of processing evidence (both of which aided judging, upon discovery, how long a sandwich had been in the tool box and if it was still edible).

Be that as it may, his practical lab experience revolved almost exclusively around the macabre (How long did it take for flesh to decompose in the sewers versus the East River? Is there a correlation between maggot length and degree of decomposition?) and he didn't think his science teacher, Mr. Smith, would appreciate him experimenting on cadavers in the biology lab, however truly sorry he seemed to turn that idea now.

So what then to test? He had calmly and intelligently been discussing the matter with Alfred (read: whining and trying to pump the older man for ideas) when the Englishman reminded him that necessity was the mother of invention (read: deflected all attempts at fishing for ideas and then made Tim take out the trash to add insult to injury). Tim decided to roll with it, as it was the best (read: only) idea, after all.

Consequently, the next few days found Tim scrutinizing the things around him. Could he test how the viscosity of coffee changed depending on how long it was left out? There were some mugs on the Batcomputer's console that would do quite nicely. Maybe something about the effectiveness of different detergents on Kevlar body armor? Alfred tried, but there was only so much you could do after a dip in the river and a quick tussle through some questionable substances in the alley between 3rd and 4th (Tim swore one of those containers had had the hazmat symbol painted on the side. Well, they'd find out when his skin started to glow like Ra's al Ghul fresh from the Lazarus Pit).

Tim had cast about desperately for something, anything, that had the potential for a half-decent project and wouldn't involve subject matter that would end him up in the counselor's office. He'd already been there once when a well-meaning teacher had pulled him aside to inquire after his strange injuries. After Tim fumbled the reply, the teacher gave him a pitying glance and sent him back to class. Tim couldn't believe that his lie had worked (it was first period – he was only half awake and still feeling the lingering effects of a pain killer for a reduced dislocation), but he decided not to question his luck. Heart pounding (he was awake _now_), he resumed his seat and resolved to learn to write with his left hand so any future in-class essays wouldn't aggravate an injured shoulder. Tim thought he'd dodged a bullet, but it had actually been a Batarang because it came back to get him fifth period that same day when he was called down to the counselor's office.

One quick explanation and some hastily fabricated trophies (Was there anything Alfred couldn't do?) later, and the school administrators had a new respect for Tim Drake, Black Belt. Tim had been mostly exasperated by the entire ordeal, but Bruce took it very seriously (any questions remotely regarding their alter egos raised his metaphorical hackles). Alfred was quietly amused (in his dry English way) and mentioned something about polo, which only earned him a Look from Bruce.

Tim happened upon an idea purely by accident. He'd been rootling about in the storage units in the back of the cave looking for some spare parts to work into a new long-range listening device.

The wall of large black metal boxes looked deceptively similar to shipping containers, but with electronic locking keypads that belied their true purpose. There was stored everything Bat: dossiers on the trustworthy (or otherwise) police officers, costume pieces for disguises, a fully stocked trauma room, extreme rescue equipment, various electronic odds and ends, cowls without the ears (At least they'd have spares?), extra grappling hooks and Batarangs, old and excess armor (He was going to give Nightwing _so much crap_ for that Elvis-esque jumpsuit number), ears for the cowls, at least two dozen hulking containers Tim hadn't even seen the inside of, and one he would swear up and down _rattled_ when you walked too close.

He'd been going back and forth between a container that resembled a handyman's garage (for the listening bug) and the container with the retired suits (for blackmail purposes) when he stumbled across several oversized spools wound with what appeared to be different colors of nylon rope. Rubbing his shin, Tim inspected the strands more closely and found them to be different widths and originally intended for spelunking, according to the label (One of Bruce's hobbies?).

_Eureka. _

Next just came the relatively simple task of substituting several of the lines on the current grappling hooks and batarangs with the different nylon widths. Now to see which one had the greatest tensile strength for its width and weight. There was only so much one could fit into a utility belt. Consequently, he and Bruce were more obsessive ounce counters than the most experienced backpackers. Did the usefulness of a particular gadget justify the space it took up and the energy it took to haul it around? Only one night of testing could save him a world of trouble.

Easy enough, right?

Two snapped lines, an impromptu dumpster dive, and a broken window later and Tim's name was officially mud.

Their patrols weren't usually the chattiest, and the words they did speak were succinct, but that night even the Bat's _silence_ was blistering.

And now he sat hunched in front of a creaky old computer (in comparison to the paragon of technology that held court in the center of the cave) in a secluded corner of the Batcave, _willing_ himself invisible. One more pointed glare and he was pretty sure his cape would catch fire, Alfred-tested flame retardant or not.

Fortunately, he just had to write up the results and all would be forgotten. He'd already hastily replaced the experimental grappling lines with the original under the stern eye of Batman and then made himself scarce. Very scarce, very fast.

Statement of purpose? Check. Hypothesis? Check. Materials, procedures, results, and conclusions? Slightly fabricated (Yes, Mr. Smith, I tested my materials whilst moonlighting as a vigilante.) but complete. Now he just had to write out this "acknowledgements" business and he was finished. Tilting his head, he considered for a moment before dashing out a few lines, all the while with a wry smile playing about his mouth.

He clicked the save button one last time.

Finally, after days of searching and hours of testing, after setbacks and sabotage, after discouragement and opposition, his science fair project was complete. He heaved a massive sigh of relief and stretched his arms above his head, relieving muscles cramped recently from typing and distantly from butt-kicking. He planned on heading straight for his bed, where he would hopefully get some long-awaited rest and not nightmares plagued by that single, horrible moment when the Bat's line had snapped and Tim didn't know if he'd have a mentor or a sidewalk pancake the next morning.

He tilted his head back, fingers laced behind his neck. So much time spent and so much potential for harm had him questioning the wisdom of conducting his experiment in the first place.

However, the sight of Batman, only a little the worse for wear, briefing Gordon with tomato stains spotting his cape, spaghetti tangled in the scallops on his gauntlets, and – most memorably – a single banana peel clinging to one ear of his cowl might have made the whole blasted project worth it.

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><p>Hours later, a dark shadow stole stealthily across the cave. With a few deft moments, it switched on the small computer console and pulled up a document that read:<p>

_Acknowledgements_

_To Bruce, for the courage to leap without a net_

_To Alfred, your knot-tying skills are unparalled_

_And last but not least, _

_to the dumpster between 5__th__ and Lex: I will forever be grateful to you, _

_eggshells, pizza crusts, and all._

The corner of the shadow's mouth tilted up.


End file.
